


Broken Dolls

by Corker



Series: Broken Dolls [7]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corker/pseuds/Corker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after the qunari sacked Kirkwall, the Queen of the Eastern Sea is still nowhere to be found.  Merrill goes to see Seneschal Bran in case he's heard from her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Dolls

After a month, he stopped hearing phantom footsteps from Dumar’s office.

After three, he was no longer surprised to look up at the sound of clanking armor and see a templar instead of a guardsman standing in his doorway.

After six, things seemed almost normal again. The worst of the carnage was cleaned up and repaired; the solidarity that had brought the citizens of Kirkwall (less the elven traitors who fought with the qunari) together faded into the petty squabbles and gamesmanship he was accustomed to.

So when the soft, hesitant voice called, “Seneschal? Bran?” from the door, he took a short, sharp breath of anticipation. Even if it wasn’t quite dinner time, if Merrill were here, Isabela surely in tow, he could afford an hour or so to close the door and --

 _Merrill,_ whom he’d last seen six months ago, dripping blood and hurling Dalish curses along with balls of fire, no paltry wild elf hedge witch but a deadly force of nature. Arcs of lightning, burning flesh, and blood, the _blood_ dripping from that small, sharp knife.

If he were a more courageous man, Bran might have weighed his Kirkwaller’s opinion of blood mages ( _very bad_ ) against his own evaluation of Merrill’s character ( _mostly harmless_ ) and come to some independent conclusion. But as it was, Knight Commander Meredith effectively ruled the city, her templars were not thirty feet away, and _friend of a blood mage_ was about the last thing he wanted to be in that company. “Merrill,” he said flatly, looking up from his paperwork. “This is not a good time.”

“I, uh, it’s not about _that_ ,” she said, hugging herself tightly as she ventured into the room. “It’s only... have you seen Isabela at all recently?”

He hadn’t, which was a pity but hardly surprising, all things considered. “No,” he said briskly, and turned his attention back to his desk. Sweet Maker, let her take the hint and go...

“Neither have I,” the elf continued, approaching his desk tentatively but with determination. “Not since... not since the big fight with the qunari.”

He sighed and put down his pen so that he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “The ‘big fight,’ the sacking of the city, caused by _her_ theft of their holy book. Yes, I expect she left Kirkwall before the crowds could tear her apart.”

“But... but she hasn’t sent _word_. Or... or anything.” There was a quaver in her voice, a dampness around the eyelashes that rang warning bells in his mind.

“I don’t think she’s the type to correspond.” He looked up, eyes flat. “I have no knowledge of her whereabouts. You should try elsewhere.”

“Aren’t you worried for her?” Merrill asked, green eyes going wide, then narrowing. “I... thought... you and she... quite often... and occasionally...” She let go one shoulder long enough to point to herself. “Don’t you _care?”_ That last was more than a little accusatory...

 _Easy. Go easy._ Not from any innate empathy - politics had killed _that_ dead years ago - but because upsetting the emotionally fragile apostate archmage any further seemed a truly terrible idea. He adopted his professionally pacifying voice, the one that soothed irate counts and lords, and asked, “It’s not about caring. If she’s gone, it’s because she wanted to go. I care enough to respect her wishes.” All right, so he said it wasn’t about caring and that it was in the same breath. Didn’t matter if it worked.

“No,” Merrill said firmly, a dark roughness to the word that suggested tears were not far off. “She is my lethallan. She didn’t... just _go_. She could be lost somewhere, or... or hurt. Something’s _wrong_ , it must be!”

He spread his hands helplessly. “ _I_ am not Kirkwall’s premier locator of missing persons and rescuer of citizens in need. I - ” He gestured down at the paperwork. “Count coppers and push papers. What do you want me to do?”

Merrill’s chin lifted and her mouth tightened. “I don’t think you’re capable of it,” she said, sharp as he’d ever heard her, turning on her bare heel and striding out of his office like the last queen of Arlathan.

When she was out of sight, he leaned back in his chair, relieved.

Slightly melancholy. Just a little ashamed.

But mostly relieved.


End file.
